


So Many Minor Chords

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode 2, Season/Series 08, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows he isn't a good man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Many Minor Chords

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have a thing for these two so this is probably the second of many more to come. Comments are love.

He is _not_ a good man.

It doesn't hit her until she gets home, somewhere between flipping through the mail and tucking her hair into a sloppy ponytail, and the moment washes over her like cold water and then fades with a shiver. It should bother her more than it does, and she wonders what it means that it doesn't.

He’s still so different. One minute she’s pretty sure she knows what the rules are now, and the next her palm is stinging, he’s holding the side of his face, and she is not the least bit sorry. Perhaps she’s still proving to herself that she’s different too.

 

 

His face is more relief than a smile. It pulls at her in a strange way, different than before.

She knows he’s trying, or at least she thinks he is. And maybe that _is_ the point, that he tries and sometimes is and still saves the people that need saving. Or at least most of them.

 

 

In the darkest part of the night she wakes up in a cold sweat, fumbling for the light on the bedside table, knocking her mobile phone to the floor in the process. She swears as she hears it skitter under the bed, and moves to sit up.

The remains of the dream are hazy at best, but the clearest part is still always him. It doesn't matter if she’s catching only a glimpse as he dashes down a corridor, or sees the flip of the corner of one of his many long coats in the distance just before the telltale groan of the TARDIS and the rush of air as time pulls it in. (Why is the coat always the constant?, she wondered idly between classes one Tuesday afternoon.)

She doesn't remember which him it was this time, but it hardly matters anymore. She is beginning to understand they are all the same in the end. They are all varying degrees of good.

Kneeling on the cold wood floor, she stretches under the bed and finds her mobile, replacing it on the corner of the table before padding softly to the bathroom. She checks her phone before she switches off the light, as if she needs to, just in case he may have called her, needed her.

Her head sinks into the pillow and she wonders, not for the first time, how long she will wait for him, how many more times she will follow him. Perhaps, again, some part of her, some version of her, always will be, even if she doesn't understand or remember how that’s possible.

And maybe that is the point too.


End file.
